


The Only Place That I Call Home

by ArvenaPeredhel



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArvenaPeredhel/pseuds/ArvenaPeredhel
Summary: Marriage is a port in the midst of a storm. PWP, not much else.
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 12
Kudos: 82





	The Only Place That I Call Home

**Author's Note:**

> "He's not my boyfriend. He's all, and he's more."

Russandol is moving within him, and the slow, easy rhythm of it forms the pulse of their private world.

He could not tell you how long their coupling has lasted, how long he has been held fast by a right arm like a bar of iron, how long its twin has been busy at his hips, teasing his aching cock. His hands are bound, and outstretched before him, braced against the mattress that his face is pressed into, and his eyes are useless thanks to a strip of black silk that has blinded him, and his hair is spilling out over his shoulders. There is hot breath at his ear, and a hungry mouth devouring jaw and neck and shoulder; surely, he will be covered with bruises by morning. For a moment, there is clarity - _I'm glad I'm_ here, _and not back east with Atya where I'd have to bother hiding what we're doing -_ and then his husband _shifts_ and their bond blazes white-hot and there is a keening, desperate, needy sound reverberating around him that is coming from his own throat.

"Easy, love," a voice commands, and he shudders and gasps and clenches around the warmth filling him before finally managing to obey. He is spent, and exhausted, and he needs _something,_ though what that is he could not say. Every breath is hot and wet, every heartbeat seems to shake him to his core.

 _Please,_ he thinks, faint and faltering. All thought is slipping from his reach; the space inside his mind is warm and dark and filled with _need._ The hand stills at his hips; he feels a laugh rumble through the body behind him, and this time when there are lips on his skin they are soft.

"Please what?" the same voice asks, and their bond is burning so brightly that he almost forgets he isn't the one who spoke. "You have to tell me what you need."

_I -_

He tries, and moans plaintively as the thrusts resume their former pace, driving any hope of a coherent plea far from his reach. Another shiver, another whine bleeding into some primal cry he can barely understand. _I need -_

"Oh," the voice answers, and he's drowning in love and care and bemused warmth, "I think I understand."

 _You - you're - please -_ please - !

"Hush," his husband commands, and he whimpers as the thrusts stop a second time. He would be limp against the bedclothes and the mattress were it not for the arms keeping him close. Russandol is far larger than he, and he forgets so easily, but now, he is reveling in the other _nér's_ sheer size, utterly ensconced in him, barely able to do more than cling to consciousness. A faint memory drifts into awareness for a moment - _You may do what you like, but we're done when_ I'm _done. -_ and he whimpers again, shivering and trying to shift against the hips that he's joined with. _Please, I can't..._

This time, the mouth has teeth, and they sink into the flesh where his neck and shoulder meet.

"Be quiet, love, and I'll take care of you," the voice says, and it is not a request, and he moans through gritted teeth and forces himself by some miracle to be silent. _I - yes. Yes. Please._

He is rewarded for his obedience. The hand resumes its stroking, and the thrusting is forceful, deep, _demanding,_ and all he hears is the gasping of his husband as they near their peak.

They come together, and he cries out despite his orders, but their bond is bright and sparking and the whole world is color entwining in their shared thought and draining out into him and onto the linen sheets. He is shaking as the heat slowly seeps away, barely aware of the fact that his hands have fallen apart and the blindfold is gone until he's lifted up and cradled close against a broad chest that is at once rock-solid and the softest thing he has ever known. Russandol's chin is resting on his head, and his hair is falling out around him in what must be wild spirals of black, and slowly things seem to slide back into themselves. He takes a breath, and then another, every ragged gasp drawing him closer to coherence.

"You nearly undid me with that moan," his husband says at last, and he laughs breathlessly and smiles without opening his eyes.

"Good," he murmurs. "You deserve a little torment now and again."

"Oh, do I?" Russandol asks, voice tired and contented.

"How long was that?" he replies, as if it's proof.

"Mm," Russandol replies, shifting so they're lying back on the pillows. "Five, maybe six hours."

 _"Ercamando,_ really? I'm going to be sore for a week."

"I'll be annoyed if it's only a week," his husband answers. "If I wore myself out only for you to cringe from a saddle for just seven days, I'm in need of more practice."

"Hah," he says. He can feel sleep creeping up on them, waiting to drag them into some shared dream, and he doesn't have the strength to fight it. "If I promise to cringe for a month, will you do this again the next time I visit?"

"Hm," Russandol muses, and then nods. "Yes." Their breathing is slow, and comfortable, and drowsy; they only have a few more seconds.

"Good," he says, smiling again. "Good."

 _I love you,_ his husband says. _I hope I dream of you._

 _I hope you do too,_ he replies, and draws the warmth of his marriage-bond up over himself like a blanket, and surrenders to sleep.


End file.
